


Reality, or a Reasonable Facsimile Thereof

by ZaliaChimera



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Angst, Cats, Dissociation, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Gen, Introspection, Just Add Kittens, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Nightmares, Paranoia, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, Psychological Trauma, Recovery, Remix, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-04
Updated: 2017-04-04
Packaged: 2018-10-09 11:38:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10411293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZaliaChimera/pseuds/ZaliaChimera
Summary: Is it acceptable to admit that you slept better in an active warzone than you do in peacetime?Wash has a box of things he isn't thinking about and a sometimes tenuous grasp on reality. Tucker has something that might help. (For once) it isn't his dick.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [a_taller_tale](https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_taller_tale/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Cat People are Sexy as Hell](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7551169) by [a_taller_tale](https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_taller_tale/pseuds/a_taller_tale). 



There’s blood on his knuckles. The scrapes honestly hadn’t been too bad that morning, just torn up a little from punching the wall. Bitch of a nightmare. They’d stopped for a while, during the height of the conflict, driven away by exhaustion and stress and the knowledge that at least one person had to hold it together. But they’ve come back full force since the conflict ended, with Charon brought to justice.

He tries not to think too hard about what it means, that the longest period of peaceful sleep he’s had in years has come in the middle of an active war zone. He’s sure Doctor Grey could write a thesis on it, probably would love the challenge so he’s absolutely determined that she will never find out.

The scrapes hadn’t been too bad; the light grazes had scabbed over by morning, where they’d bled at all. But over the course of the day he’s picked at them unthinkingly, raking away loose flecks of skin and crusted blood, until they’ve started bleeding again. It’s a dull, raw sort of pain, more irritating than anything, but it settles something in the pit of his belly to feel it, and it works a little, in lieu of the heady burn of combat, the knife-edge of adrenaline.

He’s trying not to think about what that means either.

Armour covers a multitude of sins and he misses it keenly right now. There’s no real way to hide fucked up knuckles. Misses the armour anyway, the level of control that it gives him over everything, temperature and sensory input and how much people can see him. God, he’d never thought of himself as a control freak. They’re trying to transition to peacetime though, and part of that, Kimball had said, was wearing civilian clothing, or at least something other than a few hundred pounds of alloy and kevlar, to breakfast. And other meals. And generally all the time except when working.

Somehow she’d got the impression that he’s a good role model for this, as someone who chose to be a soldier and has experience with mandated downtime and shore leave, when most of the Chorus soldiers were forced into this by necessity. She’s still clinging to that belief, even if every time he or Carolina open their mouths and talk about Freelancer, he sees that gilded idea of them that she has tarnish a little more.

Add that to the list of things he’s trying not to think about too. One day he’s probably going to have to unbox all of those thoughts, pick them apart but… not now. Not now.

He has a med-kit in the room he shares with Tucker and he heads there now instead of to the mess. The corridors are so familiar that he’s almost surprised when he reaches the door, having barely noticed a single turn on the way there. He glances back over his shoulder the way he’d come and squeezes his eyes shut, fighting off the sensation of unreality that comes. It comes sometimes, when he loses scraps of time, or when the world feels like a painted backdrop and the sensation that if he reaches out and touches it, the world will be revealed to be canvas and trickery.

That ‘do not think about’ box just keeps getting bigger.

He blinks a few times and drags the nail of his thumb over one of the scrapes on his knuckles. Pain flares for a flash fire moment and a bead of blood wells up, but it helps to dissipate that feeling. He’s still mostly convinced that when he opens the door there’ll be nothing but a void, or a hallway from the Mother of Invention, or the grubby living room of Blue Base in Valhalla, but it helps, and when he grabs the door handle it doesn’t feel like he’s preparing to lose everything he is.

Still, there’s a palpable sense of relief when the door opens onto the cramped bedroom he shares with Tucker. Two beds in regulation grey metal, two bedside tables, two lockers. Tucker’s blanket and sheets are tangled into a gordian knot, while Wash’s are made up neatly. It’s so familiar and Wash feels a sudden rush of affection towards the room just for being exactly as he left it. He sits down on the bed and grabs the medical kit. The sting of antiseptic makes the world flood back into clarity, makes it feel more solid, more real. It won’t last, and even as he’s bandaging his hands he feels that unease creeping back in. Should it be so quiet? Is the stillness unnatural or just because everyone’s probably at lunch?

He curls his fingers to feel the split of skin and scabs, and keeps at what he was doing.

He’s just tearing off the end of the tape he’s using to tack down the wrappings when Tucker barges in, flushed and flustered and carrying a large cardboard box in his arms. His arms which, Wash notices with some alarm, are scratched up, bleeding sluggishly in places.

“Tucker, what’s wrong?” He pushes himself to his feet to move to the other man’s side, alarm, and a touch of excitement, curling inside him. He has at least five scenarios mapped out by time Tucker closes the door behind himself, ranging from aggressive alien wildlife, to political coup, to _Locus_ out for revenge. There are other scenarios too, underlying those; the spectre of the Meta, looming large enough that he can almost feel snow and taste blood. Epsilon shattering into coalescing fractals again and again.

“Nothing’s wrong, Wash,” Tucker says, and he gives one of those smiles which Wash finds more alarming than anything. It’s a smile that can mean anything. He's seen it when Tucker is trying to reassure him that ‘oh hey, this gaping wound? Nothing to worry about’. 

“There’s something wrong,” Wash says, sceptical and worried, but Tucker pushes past him towards the bedside table, cradling that box against his chest like a baby and setting it down with infinite gentleness. 

And then the box squeaks.

Wash’s heart gives a fully little jolt. The squeak is followed by the sounds of scratching. “What-“

Tucker steps aside and Wash doesn’t remember taking the step up to the box. But he must have because he’s unfolding the cardboard flaps and it all comes in snapshots, static images until the kitten, a scrap of grey fur and sinew held together by spite, is nestled into the crook of his neck.

He can feel it there, tiny heartbeat, the occasional prick of claws, and then, the soft rumble of a purr which reverberates against the pulse in his neck and down through taut shoulders. It feels very warm, very soft, very solid. 

“I found it in the garbage,” Tucker says. 

Wash looks at him, startled, wonders why he’s shouting suddenly. Takes him a moment to realise that he’s not, it’s just that the muted, unreal feeling has receded further and he’s now at least seventy-five percent sure that if he leaves the room all he’ll find is exactly what’s supposed to be there.

The kitten nudges at his face, rough tongue flicking out against his cheek, and the sandpaper feeling is real too, another point of grounding sensation. He runs his fingers along the length of it’s body, lost in the feeling, unfamiliar enough these days that he’s almost certain it has to be real, has to be here and now. There’d been no animals except those scraggly wild birds and the occasional hopping mouse in Valhalla, and nothing at all in Freelancer facilities. His own cats he’d left behind so long ago, and in such different circumstances, that the only place it can be is Chorus. The only time it can be is now. He’s on Chorus, in a base just outside of the city of Iona. He’s here. 

He strokes the cat again, taking in flat facts. He can count its ribs, poor thing, and its fur is still in the fluffy stage.. It’s heartbeat is strong and steady and it’s purring like an engine against Wash’s chest.

He shifts his grip a little, and becomes aware of Tucker watching him intently, and Wash realises what he must look like. A fucking crazy person, holding onto a kitten like it’s a lifebelt and he’s a drowning man. He wonders if he should tell him perhaps, about the times when the hallways feel like they’ll lead to different places. About the times when he wakes up and the only real thing is a wall and the pain of scraped knuckles. About the times when he wonders what the point of getting up is, because he can’t imagine that there’s anything outside the door except void and medical equipment. 

The kitten twists in his grasp, nuzzling back against his neck. Wash closes his eyes and feels the our against his cheekbone. It seems to fill his head, leaving no room for anything else as it shakes apart the creeping haze.

“Uh—Glad you like your new cat, Wash. Remember to feed it or whatever. I’m gonna. Go. Now.”

Wash gives an absent hum, and lets out a slow breath. He leans back and even the bed feels more solid now, less like it’ll dissolve into smoke if he thinks too hard about it.

The kitten winds up settling on his chest, curling up its tiny weight, but still purring like it’s five times the size. It blinks slowly at him. Wash blinks back and-

“My cat? Tucker? Tucker!”


End file.
